Almost
by cupid-painted-blind
Summary: [And so it is, the shorter story, no love, no glory] “I wanted to be whatever she couldn’t be, and that was normal. So I went for normality. And over time, I guess I simply forgot my dreams and fantasies and set about being respectable.” Petunia reflects.


**(A/N: I wrote this a while back but never posted it. And the lyrics are from "The Blower's Daughter" by Damien Rice.)**

_And so it is, just like you said it would be, life goes easy on me, most of the time. And so it is,  
the shorter story, no love, no glory, no hero in her sky.  
I can't take my eyes off of you._

**Almost**

She laughs.

It's a quiet laugh, beautiful and surreal and unmistakable. And I can sit at the window for hours, watching her in the grass outside, laughing and smiling and weaving flower crowns, white for her hair, red for mine. Just the opposite, she'd say, just the opposite.

And she laughs. A beautiful, quiet laugh that drags up memories of summer days and lemonade and swimming in the lake and playing with dolls and hiding from the big kids during a rough-and-tumble game of hide-and-go-seek. It makes my heart ache and sing and cry all at the same time, because I can hear her laugh and I can see her smile and I can almost, almost pretend that it's back to the way it used to be, back to the way it was before…

Before…

Before it all changed. And it's ironic because I used to think that change would be my salvation. I used to think that if I could change and escape this city with its confining alleys and choking streets, that life would all shimmer brighter. And then it changed, but not in the way I wanted it to.

And she got it all. She got the fairytale story I wanted, the dreamy lover, the castle to live in, the torchlight and the magic and the constant danger that I had always found fascinating. And I resented her for it… no; I _hated _her for it.

But now I can see her laughing and playing games and weaving flowers for her hair the way she used to, the way it all used to be, and I can almost pretend that it's not like it is anymore. I can almost pretend that I never hated her, that I never cursed her name to the heavens, that I never called her names or treated her son worse than dirt. Almost.

But the truth is in her laugh, quiet and almost unreal, and I can hear it. She knows the way I viewed her, she knows that it's all true. And I know that the worst thing I can do is to pretend it never happened, but it's too easy to pass the blame onto my evil twin and act like I was an angel. And I turned from my fantasies and magical dreams when I found out they were real, not because I lost interest, but because they weren't reserved for me. It stung. I was the one who loved magic and castles and far-off kingdoms and she was the one who got them and that wasn't fair.

How could I be blamed for feeling jealous and shortchanged? I know it was wrong. I know that if I hadn't been so eager to show her up, I could have found true love or something equally as cheesy, but I ran out and picked the plainest, blandest, most insignificant man I could find and married him. Vernon is respectable and normal and unchanging.

In other words, he's everything she never was.

I don't even remember how that was supposed to make her feel. I didn't want her pity, I wanted her envy. I wanted to be whatever she couldn't be, and that was normal. So I went for normality. And over time, I guess I simply forgot my dreams and fantasies and set about being respectable.

All because of her. And that's what hurts the worst about it. I changed everything I might have been, everything I wanted to be, and everything I could have been, just to get back at her. And then she went and got herself killed and I couldn't even exact my revenge. And now I don't even know what my revenge was supposed to be.

The little girl runs off, back to her home four houses down, clutching my beautiful white flowers in her hand, a crown for her auburn hair, and laughing the whole way. The spell is broken and I can feel myself again, see my own house again, not the home where she used to weave flowers for our hair. Red flowers, I recall. Because her hair was red and mine blonde, and her flowers were white, so mine had to be red. Then we could fit together, she said; I wouldn't have to stand so separate. I always wore her red flowers to make her happy, but when it all changed she stopped weaving the crowns and I stopped wearing them.

It's easy to work myself into a fury when I can't see her, and end up hating her and begging the gods a reason why someone such as myself was cursed with a sister such as that. But when she laughs, I can't pretend that it's all her fault, and the memories, like snowdrops, show up from under the layers. And I can almost believe that she'd forgive me if she could.

"Petunia, are you all right, dear?"

"I'm fine. Some little child from down the street was stealing my flowers."

Almost.


End file.
